Raveled
by Nashidesei
Summary: [Arc: Monster] Vincent Valentine has lost his sister, and given up his home to make sure such a horrible thing never happens again. But this decision will change his life in ways that no one could ever imagine . . . [Hiatus]
1. Taking Control

**DISCLAIMER**: As with Bound, this is the only disclaimer I'm writing for this particular fanfic, so don't freak out when I don't attach one to each and every chapter. Final Fantasy VII, the characters contained therein, the cities and the locations they visit, and Sephiroth's left sock do not belong to me. Although I did manage to steal that last one a little while ago. (ducks as Seph attacks her) EEK! Okay, okay! The stupid sock is yours— 

"Thank you." Sephiroth takes the sock.

—and everything else I listed belongs to the wonderful people at _SquarEnix_, which I will one day own.

…

What?! Why are you all looking at me like I'm crazy?

Fine, on with the notes. This story is the prequel to _Bound_, part one in the _Ties That Bind_ trilogy, and does **not** focus around Cloud and Sephiroth in the same manner as its sequel. Rather, this particular book is separated into three parts: the Vincent Arc, entitled _Monster_, the Sephiroth Arc, entitled _Angel_, and the Cloud Arc, entitled _Mortal._ Along with those there are sort of "subquests" giving Zack own part—which spans from Sephiroth's to Cloud's—and also giving one to Hojo—which spans the entire book—and Lucrecia—which exists in Vincent's arc and in a small portion of Sephiroth's.

It's kind of hard to explain, but I figured I'd warn anyone reading this that this story runs the course of about forty to fifty years, from Vincent's childhood to…well, I'm not gonna give away the ending! (Even though anyone who's read _Bound_ should be able to figure where this one will cut off.)

All right, as with its sequel, _Raveled_ starts on a rather unsettling, somewhat confusing note, and doesn't explain _anything_ outright. This first chapter is kind of short, but I can promise that the next is longer. I finished it a while ago.

Enjoy the story, and please review!

- - -

**Chapter One: Taking Control**

The boy rocked back and forth, the head of an older girl cradled in his arms. Her eyes were closed, brown hair matted with blood, and her skin had gone pale long ago. Yet still he held her, still he called her name, still he begged for her to breathe again. "Come on, Alora, wake up! Open your eyes, please!"

A man came up behind him, tall and bronze-haired with eyes of amber-hazel that held more shadows now than ever before. He placed a hand on the ebon-haired youth's shoulder and spoke quietly. "Vincent," he said softly, "she's gone."

"No she's not!" Vincent cried in reply, shooting his father an angry glare. "She _can't_ be gone!" His grip on the dead girl tightened, his knuckles going white as he buried his face in her deep brown hair. "Come on, Alora, please…" me murmured, tears streaming down his pale cheeks. "You promised you wouldn't leave me. You promised you wouldn't be like Mom…" He choked slightly, a quiet sob emerging from his throat. "Please, Alora, open your eyes!"

Gabrael Valentine placed one hand on either of his young son's shoulders and pulled him back. "She's gone, Vincent, let her go." He drew the boy into his arms and held him tightly, letting him sob into his chest. The man was reminded yet again just how small his child was, taking so much after his mother. Vincent would never be as physically strong as his father—or even as his older sister, perhaps—but Gabrael loved him just the same. Even if he would never be able to shape metal and piece together guns as his father and grandfather had for generations, even if he never even touched a gun for the rest of his life, Gabrael loved him just the same.

Because he loved his only living child so, he let him cry. "Let her go…" he whispered into the boy's short black hair. "Just let her go, Vincent. It's all right."

Vincent wrapped both arms around his father's broad chest in a tight embrace. Gabrael almost stiffened, but didn't dare—Vincent never displayed this kind of affection toward anyone, not even Alora. For him to hold his father, for the first time in his life, was a miracle. But, of course, not the kind the child was looking for. "Sh-She _promised_ she wouldn't leave me…" he rasped. "She swore, Dad! She…swore…!"

The sunlight shafted across the town square, casting orange and purple shadows on the blue bricks of the ground. Three suited figures—two men and one woman—stood around the mourning pair, sunglasses removed and in their hands, weapons put away and Materia recovering; they bowed their heads in silence, each one giving a silent prayer for this poor unfortunate family. One man inparticular, however, did not pray; a man whose blue-black jacket lay discarded on the ground behind him, whose white button-up shirt and hands were stained with blood. That man dropped to his knees before the child and his father and bent down in a deep bow of apology. What could he possibly do to make up for this? What could he ever hope to do? "I-I'm so…"

"It's all right."

Rourke stiffened at the sound of Gabrael's voice, barely able to comprehend what had been said. He lifted his brown eyes from the cobbled stones, eyes that were wide and red-rimmed, and spoke in a disbelieving whisper. "What?"

Gabrael shook his head, closing his eyes and holding his shaking son closer. "It's all right, Sir Rourke. There is nothing anyone could have done to change this—it's not your fault."

"B-But it was _my_ shot!" Rourke replied incredulously, sitting up. "I'm the one who shot her! It's because of me that she—"

"To say that you are the reason Alora has died would be like saying Vincent is the reason my late wife, Ayako, passed away." Gabrael's eyes went momentarily dark, and his drew back from his son slightly, letting the boy look at the man who had shot his sister. "It was the birth of my son that weakened her, and her immune system never recovered. She passed away because of Vincent, technically, but there is _nothing_ he could have done to change it. This is the same."

Vincent's brown eyes, still red-rimmed and shining with tears, lit on the copper-haired man kneeling before him. His lower lip shook slightly, but he forced himself to speak nonetheless. "I-It's not your fault," he said softly. "We were in the wrong place…at the wrong time."

The brown-haired weaponsmith smiled down at his youngest—and now his _only_—child, wrapping one arm about the boy's shoulders with a smile. That smile faded, however, as Vincent rose to his feet, shrugging off his father's warm gesture of assurance, and turned to walk away. He paused barely three steps out, and turned to look at Rourke once more. "How old do you have to be," he inquired, "to become a Turk?"

Rourke's brow furrowed, and he turned to face the Turk Leader, Mirialle. The mousy-haired woman thought for a moment, then shook her head once. "There's no age limit—you just have to be skilled enough. I think the youngest on record was twenty-two when he joined."

The black-haired child nodded. "All right," he said softly. "When you leave, I'm coming with you," he said easily. "I'm going to become a Turk."

- - -

The boy, amber eyes wide, cried out in disbelief. "You're going to do _what_?!" he inquired hotly, making his mother—who was attempting to sleep in the next room—call out for silence. He winced at her voice, and lowered his own several decibels, leaning in closer to the slightly-older boy. "You don't mean that, Vin," he continued. "I mean, they killed your sister!"

"I'm going to become a Turk," the youth repeated sternly. "I'm going to join them and make sure that nothing like this ever happens again. They were here to stop a gang war, not kill a little girl. It's only because they were preoccupied with their mission objective that they didn't realize what they'd done sooner." He bit his bottom lip, lowering his round eyes; his pale skin was slightly flushed, evidence of the fact that he had run across town to reach his friend's home before the Turks left. "I know it sounds weird, Katal, but I think they need to be trained differently. They need a sharpshooter who won't miss what he's aiming at, even if it's moving a hundred miles per hour, and a Leader that won't hesitate to draw back if there's another problem like this."

Katal narrowed his eyes, folding his small, slender arms over his chest. "What, and you're going to do all that? You're only eleven years old, Vincent Valentine. There's no way you could do any of those things! And even if you could," he added bitterly, "they'd never listen to you because you're just a little kid."

"I won't be a kid forever," Vincent replied assuredly, brown eyes still averted. "I'm going to train, I'm going to learn, and I'm going to make sure that this never happens again."

Katal sighed, realizing that there was no way to talk his best friend out of this. Vincent had always been stubborn; born two months early, it was a miracle he was even alive, much less healthy. His father and sister had always said it was because he was so stubborn that he made it through those first months. That same stubbornness was carrying him far away to Midgar, a place his mother had hated, the place his father was born; a place both native and foreign to the Midgaran-Wutaian half-breed.

"What does your dad think of this? And your stepmom?"

Vincent scoffed, rolling his eyes. "They locked me in my room and told me they aren't going to let me go."

Katal blinked, running a hand through short black hair. "They locked you in? How are you here, then?"

"I'm not an idiot, Katal," the boy said, sounding so much older than his scant eleven years. "There are plenty of things in my room that can pick locks; dad gave me that gun cleaning kit for my birthday, and one of the brushes was just the right size. It was easy—took me about ten minutes." He grinned proudly, Wutaian-slanted eyes brightening slightly as he met Katal's pale gaze. "I was made for this, Katal. I _have_ to go." The shorter-haired boy let out a sigh, realizing that Vincent was right.

Vincent had never been any good at weaponsmithing, his family's livelihood; his slender fingers were clumsy when it came to piecing the metal parts together. He wasn't physically strong, but he possessed mental acuity unparalleled by anyone in the village—child or adult. He had a mixed photographic-phonetic memory, making his recollection nearly impeccable, and his fingers were anything but clumsy when it came to actually _firing_ the guns he helped to painstakingly put together. He was genius, and he could shoot. With the right training, he could become one of the strongest men Gaea had ever seen.

But that meant leaving Katal, his first and only friend. The boy, while he knew that Vincent was a prime subject for becoming a Turk, wasn't quite certain _how_; he didn't yet have the clarity of thought to list the different things Vincent was capable of, but knew that he was far beyond normal children. After all, the longer-haired child understood, in words and images far beyond even his best friend's comprehension, why he was made for this. Vincent knew, and so did Katal.

But that didn't mean the latter of the two had to like it.

The younger boy took hold of his best friend's shirt, small fingers curling around the black fabric and clinging tightly. "I don't want you to go," he whispered. "If you go, Vin—"

"You can make more friends, Kat," Vincent replied, using the boy's rare diminutive. "The only reason you haven't so far is because you're friends with me; the other kids are afraid of me, and so they avoid you. Like I'm some kind of contagious disease that you could pass on to them."

Vincent was right on that account as well. Katal hated it. "Dammit, Vin," he breathed, using his mother's favorite oath, "why do you have to be so smart?"

The young Valentine shrugged, eyes going dark. "I don't know. If I knew, then maybe I wouldn't be leaving." He let out a sigh. "I'm sorry, Katal," he murmured, placing both hands on the other child's and lifting his eyes. "I have to do this—you know I do. Please, let go."

"B-But…"

Vincent gave another rare smile, looking his age for a fleeting moment. "Please, Katal." He pulled the boy's hand away from his shirt, carefully uncurling each finger before letting it drop. "Let me go." He took a step back, out the doorway. "I'll come back, someday," he promised. "And I'll write."

Katal arched both eyebrows, eyes stinging with tears. "Promise?"

"Promise."

The younger boy held out one hand, palm up, and Vincent held out his own. They grasped each other's wrists for a short moment; in the light from the streetlamps, Katal could swear he saw tears in Vincent's brown eyes.

A voice hissed from the dark. "Hey, are you comin' or what?"

Vincent turned, though Katal couldn't be sure what he was looking at, and nodded. "Just a moment more, Valyend," he urged. Brown eyes locking with Katal's once more, the youth gave a quick smile. "I'll be back, Katal. I promise." Then he took another step back, the shadows swallowing him, and he was gone.

Katal stood there in the doorway for an eternity, staring out into the nighttime darkness, ears straining to hear the last vestiges of Vincent's footsteps, but they were already gone. Lost before even given life. Vincent had always been quiet when he moved, like a cat. Was that one more thing that made him so determined to become a member of the group that killed his sister? He was made for this; it was Fate.

It's not fair… 

The boy took a step back and closed the door, staring blankly at the doorknob for a long moment. He heard the creak of a floorboard behind him, and turned to see his mother—brown hair messy, pale pink robe wrapped tightly about her sickly-slim form—step into the room. They locked eyes for a moment, amber meeting amber, and Katal's bottom lip began to quiver. Another second passed, and he began to cry. His mother dropped to her knees as he rushed to her and held him tight as he sobbed.

- - -

"It's the same as kidnapping, for Gaea's sake!"

Rourke shook his head. "He came of his own free will, sir," he replied. The suit-garbed woman arched one eyebrow, eyes casting to the boy seated in the farthest corner of the transport. His eyes were blank and staring, obviously not seeing a flicker of the scenery outside the window he gazed past. Rourke leaned forward, dropping his voice to a whisper. "Please, Mirialle," he begged. "We owe him this much, don't we? I'll take care of him for a while, and he'll get tired of it in a few months and ask to be sent back home. I'm sure of it."

"I don't need taking care of," the boy said. The two Turks started and turned to face him, discovering that he had not removed his eyes from the window—indeed, he had not moved at all. "And I'm not going back to Kalm. I want to become a Turk, and I'm going to become a Turk."

"But you're just a boy," Mirialle cajoled. "I'm sure someone as smart as you has more choices for a future than this."

Vincent shook his head. "This is all there is," he said softly, his voice just above a whisper. He turned at last to face the Turk Leader. "I was made for this, sir," he explained. "You don't understand that now, but you will. When I become a Turk—maybe when I become a Cadet, even—then you'll understand."

The woman exchanged a glance with her rusty-haired second. Rourke shrugged subtly, hoping the boy wouldn't notice. Neither of them would ever find out if he had. Mirialle let out a sigh and rose to her feet, walking the short distance from her seat to Vincent's. "We're murderers, Vincent. We sabotage, we spy, we steal, we destroy, we lie. But, most of all, we kill. No matter who it is, no matter the reason—if we're given a reason at all." She dropped to one knee, looking up at the youth. "Can you really see yourself living a life like that?" She stared deep into his earthy eyes, looking for some hint of shock or aversion, some realization of his mistake in following them.

Instead, the boy's gaze remained even. There was understanding, certainly, maybe even a little determination, but not a hint of fear. "As humans," he said quietly, "we have the power to choose our own destinies—or so my father says. But my mother didn't choose to die because of my birth, and my sister didn't choose to die by Rourke's bullet. We may have some control, but it's tentative at best. My life was planned out for me from the day I was born; take my father's place as the head of Valentine Weaponry, get married, have at least one child to take over after I'm gone, die. That's all." His eyes narrowed slightly. "I'm taking control. I've made my choice, and I'm standing by it."

Mirialle, somewhat unnerved by the wisdom in the boy's words, managed to speak only after a long second of silence. "And what if, someday, you're ordered to kill your own father?"

Vincent was quiet for a moment. "Then…" he breathed, averting his eyes. "Then I hope he doesn't resist too much."

The Turk Leader—all three Turks, actually—felt a chill run through them at the boy's words. Mirialle stared, dumbfounded, for what must have been at least ten minutes. Rourke was the first to break the silence. "So do I, kid," he whispered, shaking his head and lowering his gaze. "So do I."

- - -

**Author's Note:** Sorry for the shortness of this thing. Really. There's a lot more on the way, and this is actually more like a prologue than a first chapter…but the title _Prologue_ just didn't seem to fit it. It's kind of like a blend between the two—a _propter_ or a _chalogue_ or something stupid like that. Vincent is one of my favorite characters, (currently tied with Reno and, of course, Sephiroth), and I understand that my display of him here is a bit harsh, but I always felt that Vincent couldn't have been a normal child to have been like he was.

Admittedly, Hojo's screwing with his genetics accounted for a lot of the brooding angst, and Lucrecia accounted for more, but he always seemed kind of distant before either of those things happened. The little flashes they show here and there in the game before he was rejected by Luc' always made me wonder what kind of person he was as child, but the game seems to behave as though his life didn't begin until Lucrecia and Hojo came into the picture. Everyone has something, sometimes several things, that happen in their childhood to define who they are, and this is my rendition of it.

Sorry if it's confusing and kind of boring, the next chapter is a lot better than this one. I promise.


	2. Twelve Parts Mako

**Author's Note: **thanks to anyone who's returning to read the next chappie, and to anyone who reviewed. I understand that little Vincent might be a little "out of character," but it never shows him as a child in the game, so I get free reign over his youth. If you don't like it, don't like it—I'm having great fun screwing around with his corner of the universe.

**-**

**-**

**Chapter Two: Twelve Parts Mako**

"Rourke! Hey, Rourke?" The youth looked about the room as he walked in, closing the door behind him and feeling a hint of pride come over him when he heard the automatic lock engage. The door was blank, without a knob, the opening triggered by a genetic scanner that ran up its entire face; as a result, no one could enter this room—apartment, rather—who was not encoded.

It had been a science project Vincent designed a year and half ago. Now Shinra had taken custody of his prototype and was marketing it throughout the entire world. Vincent, of course, didn't see a gil of the profits, but it was enough for him to know that people were now much safer because of his child's toy.

It also made things much easier for the Turks. Any high-security organization had at least one of these doors in their headquarters; Shinra had seventeen in the Scientific Research sector alone. Most of those organizations, however, didn't know that the doors were all specially coded to allow anyone of Shinra descent—Moribe, his son Aylin, and anyone that came after—entry, as well as a select few that President Shinra himself chose. Namely, the Turks. When a new Turk was added, the entire system rebooted, taking a fraction of a second to remove one genetic code and replace it with another.

Oh yes, Vincent was very proud of this particular toy.

But any joy in his thoughts faded swiftly when the thirteen-year-old Valentine realized that there was no one here. Rourke, for some reason or another, was gone.

For good measure—and to be thorough—the youth checked the other rooms, searching for some sign of his guardian, or perhaps a note to tell where he had gone. His own room had not changed since he left for school that morning, unsurprising considering there wasn't much inside it to change, and Rourke's room was as empty as ever. As he walked past the bed, the boy caught sight of the corner of a magazine sticking out from beneath the mattress. He rolled his eyes and tucked it underneath entirely, careful not to look at it. Rourke's magazines were supposed to be his dirty little secret, something the boy he roomed with was not to know about. Which meant, of course, that not only did Vincent know—and not care—but so did the other Turks. Valyend had snuck in several times during Rourke's nights out and 'borrowed' one or two, giving the usually-studying Vincent a wink as he left.

Vincent always thought it was rather stupid.

_Well, he's not in here,_ he thought with a sigh. He checked the kitchen, namely the door of the fridge, and found no sign of a note. He checked the computer, to find nothing worthy of mentioning. He logged the Turk off and shut it down in passing, and then returned to the living room to retrieve his backpack.

The black-haired boy—though that inky hair was much shorter now than it had been when left Kalm two years ago—passed by the television, grabbed his backpack, and then froze in place. He turned to look at the entertainment device—another thing he found rather stupid—over his shoulder, and rolled his eyes. There, secured to the screen with a piece of clear tape, was a hastily-scrawled note.

He tossed his bag onto the couch and tore the note off, wondering why Rourke had put it on the television; Vincent never watched anything except the news, so it wasn't a place he would usually look until about eight o'clock at night. Deciding Rourke's relative stupidity—or perhaps simple hastiness—was not something he wanted to ponder at that point in time, the boy read the note.

_Vincent; I won't be home for about a week, maybe more. Me and the Others have been dispatched to Wutai to 'quell an uprising' and we're not sure when we'll get home. You know these guys—they're tough and quick. That explains where you got it._

_See you eventually,_

_Rourke_

Vincent sighed and stuck the note back onto the television screen, taking a moment to ponder his situation. Most boys his age would have taken the time without supervision to have a party of some sort, probably with alcohol and illegally-marketed Mako shots. Vincent, however, was not like most boys his age, and so was only mildly perturbed at the fact that Rourke's absence would mean he would have to walk to school in the morning. Walk, or take the bus.

The memories of his first day of school, three days after being enrolled at Shinra's upper academy—he had been promoted a grade within a week of starting at the junior academy, and so was a year ahead of his peers—came back to him in a rush. Rourke had suggested he take the bus, just to see if the Turk could save money on gas, and Vincent had reluctantly complied.

Within ten minutes of sitting silently in his seat while the lumbering vehicle plodded on toward its destination, Vincent had been assaulted by three boys at least two years older than him and twice his size. All of them children of Shinra's top officials, none of them recognized Vincent, who remained relatively secret to the world of Shinra Incorporated. Rourke had gotten clearance to care for him from the President himself, but Vincent had never gone to any of the parties or meetings that so many other children had. As a result, the boys didn't know that he was being raised by a _Turk_, and thus had some experience in combat.

The fight hadn't lasted long, barely over two minutes.

One of the boys went away with a broken leg, another with a dislocated shoulder, and the third with a mild concussion. Vincent had left with mildly bruised knuckles and slight abrasions on the top of his fingers.

Vincent decided to walk to school while Rourke was gone.

That settled, he turned his mind to more pressing matters. "Homework, homework…" he mumbled, picking up his backpack again and lugging the dead weight—all forty pounds of it—to his bedroom, where he dropped it on the bed and sat down at his desk. He booted up his computer, waiting the excruciatingly long minute and a half it took to complete the virus scan before running any programs. He pulled a notebook out of his backpack and flipped it open to the proper page. He was the only boy in his class who used a pencil and paper, the others all had notebooks in the technological sense: laptop computers.

The half-Wutaian, however, preferred graphite and fiber to pixels and light, and so his notes were smudged and written in shorthand, the margins covered with doodles that made no sense even to him. Quotes he had read recently, snippets of conversation he had overhead, quick sketches of interesting scenes he had watched play out today; they covered the borders of his page like some sort of mangled frame. Vincent thought it looked like a mat designed by a schizophrenic having a bad day.

"But then, today," he mused aloud, simply to hear some noise in the empty apartment, "wasn't really a good day for anyone—sane or otherwise—was it?" He started his music program running, letting the somber notes of a now-rotten piano play out through his speakers, ridding him of the inherent need to make his own noise.

No, today had _not_ been a good day. They had been studying the affects of Mako on living creatures in Biology—a step up from pumping up corpses, which they had been doing for the last month—using white mice as subjects. The professor, a gray-haired retired SOLDIER in his early forties by the name of Lynden, had shown them the end result of using concentrated Mako—one step away from Materia—on a white mouse, which he claimed to have injected only once, seven days before. The creature had displayed had been a monster of a rodent, at least a foot long, with sharp teeth and glowing green eyes.

Vincent pulled up the sleeve of his uniform to see the bandage that covered his left forearm, and the unpleasant memories, unwanted, returned with full force.

**-**

"As you can see," Professor Lynden explained, "even one injection of this concentrated Mako—which is basically liquid Materia—is enough to change a living creature on a physical _and_ psychological level."

A hand went up. Heads turned—including Vincent's—to see a young girl with pale brown hair and clear blue eyes; the child prodigy, a girl who had skipped two grades, Lucrecia Sorrenson. The teacher gave a nod for her to speak. "What do you mean, psychological?" she inquired, lowering her hand. "Mice aren't sentient beings, so wouldn't it be difficult to tell if its manner of thinking has changed at all?"

Lynden nodded. "Usually, it would be highly difficult, even stupid, to attempt to study a rodent's line of thought, but in this case it's actually fairly easy to tell that something has changed. Watch." He pulled out a small bowl of mouse feed from one of the cupboards behind him, obviously having it prepared for just this reason, and placed it on the runner to push it into the cage.

The monster mouse observed the arrival of the food, even lumbered over and picked at it with its small pink hands, but didn't eat it. Several seconds passed with the twenty-odd students staring in rapt attention as the mouse looked to one side, then the other, then tentatively lifted one pellet to its mouth. It then shoved the object roughly between its teeth, followed by both pale hands, with which it jammed the pellet down its own throat. It continued pushing, as far as its forelegs could go, while the teens watched in horrified fascination. Finally the creature's arms could go no further, and it froze in place, eyes casting wildly about the room with a disturbing intelligence. They lit on Lucrecia, Vincent, each student in turn, the at last landed on Lynden, where they remained. The eerily glowing orbs dimmed, glazed, and the mouse fell over.

Lucrecia let out a yelp of surprise, shying back slightly in her seat, while Vincent's brow furrowed. "Have they all done this, Professor?" he inquired.

Lynden nodded, placing the veil he had used to keep the monster concealed over the cage once more. "Every one of them, regardless of how they react to the Mako, has displayed disturbing behavior—they have all, for lack of a better term, committed suicide." Vincent couldn't help but wince at the connotations of that remark. Suicide meant cognitive awareness, knowledge of one's existence, and wanting to end it. Did the mice, somehow, develop some form of heightened intelligence and loathe what they had become?

_No, of course not. Mako enhances, even mutates living tissue—hell, the stuff can even mutate _dead_ tissue—but it doesn't give sentience._ But the vision of the monster mouse, Mako-bright eyes locked with his own earthy gaze, wouldn't leave his mind. The youth shuddered.

"Now, today you will all be injecting your own subject with the same liquid Materia—though each group with have a different concentration, and none of you will be told what that concentration is." A uniform start ran through the class. Not be told what they were dealing with? It sounded a bit dangerous. "The point of the experiment is to observe the physiological changes in your mice and try to determine which group possessed the highest concentration, which the lowest, and all the levels in between." He held up a manila folder. "I have already done this, using a full dozen mice, which equals the number of two-student groups in this class. What you just saw was caused by a third-level concentration—three parts Mako, nine parts plasma." He placed a hand on the veiled cage behind him. "The highest concentration will be a full Mako injection—twelve parts Mako, zero parts plasma—and you will have to figure out which group it was that had it. Be warned; these things can be pretty frightening if you aren't prepared. Anyone who wants to count out now and do the make-up experiment instead, raise your hand."

A long second passed. No one moved.

Lynden smiled. "All right, come up here and get your hypodermics…"

Ten minutes later, Vincent was seated beside a boy about two years older than him named Farren. The older boy immediately established himself as the leader group twelve and Vincent didn't care to correct him. The youth was too busy hoping they had a small concentration of Mako, maybe even none at all, so that they wouldn't have to watch their subject kill itself too gruesomely.

Farren, judging by the looks he kept shooting Mirac—whom the half-Wutaian had long ago recognized as one of the boys he had fought on that first day on the bus—had other plans. Lynden observed the injection of each group in turn, and he had gotten all the way to group five when Farren made his move and the day went from unsettling to horrible. "Hey, Valentine," he breathed into the boy's ear. Vincent turned, eyebrows raised. "Ever wonder what this stuff feels like?"

"Not really," the boy replied, brow furrowing. This was strange; he didn't like the look in Farren's eyes at all…

It turned out his suspicion was correct, for in an instant Farren had taken hold of his hand and pulled up his sleeve. Vincent struggled to get free, but Mirac leapt up from his seat and locked him in a tight hold. The half-Wutaian was no match for him in brute strength, and he realized that there was nothing he could do. Lynden was on the other side of the room, explaining something to one of the other groups, but Vincent tried to call out in the hopes that the professor would reach him before anything could be done. Mirac clamped one hand over his mouth, silencing him instantly.

"Professor!" The voice registered vaguely in Vincent's memory—Lucrecia?—but it was hard to breathe with the larger boy's hand on his mouth and his thoughts were growing foggy.

Farren flipped the smaller boy's hand and tapped the underside of his wrist experimentally with two fingers. _Like a doctor about to do a blood draw_, Vincent thought. His brown eyes widened. _Or about to give an injection!_

He felt he should have clenched his eyes shut, winced, done _something_ to show the outside world what he felt inside when he realized what Farren was about to do, but all he could do was stare. And stare he did, both awestruck and terrified, as the older boy pressed the needle to his skin, puncturing the sensitive flesh easily and entering a vein—_Or was that an artery?_ A part of Vincent queried detachedly—expertly, as though the fifteen-year-old wielding the hypodermic tool was a professional.

The older boy, thumb resting lightly on the end of the syringe pump, gave Vincent one last sideways glance, causing them to lock eyes for a fraction of a second.

_Please,_ Vincent pleaded with his eyes. _Please, don't do this to me…!_

Farren turned away as though he hadn't even noticed the begging glint in the smaller youth's eyes, but Vincent could see that he set his jaw and felt his hands shake slightly.

"_Professor_!" the voice was frantic now, more like a shriek than spoken word. Vincent thought he heard someone come up behind Mirac, thought he felt someone tug on his shoulder, but with the fear and asphyxiation setting in he couldn't be sure. "Mirac, let him go!"

Farren, realizing that they were going to be stopped if they didn't hurry up, shoved down the pump roughly—making the injection far swifter than was safe—and flooded Vincent's bloodstream with liquid Materia.

Now Vincent did react outwardly. He did not simply stare, he did not plead futilely with his eyes—he screamed. Even with his voice muffled by Mirac's hand the scream was loud and long: his throat went dry; his eyes, wide and frantic, turned black as his pupils dilated out of control. The muscles in his left arm contracted and relaxed erratically as the blue-green liquid seared his veins. He could _feel_ it, feel it travel through his bloodstream and burn with every step; it was made its way with excruciating slowness toward his heart. Like a demon hungry for his soul.

The needle had been removed, thought Vincent couldn't say when, and he was somehow free from Mirac's grasp. Yet still he screamed, agonized, unable to recollect if he had even taken a breath since the injection. It must have only been a few seconds, but Vincent felt as though years passed as he howled in pain.

"What did you _do_!" that high voice shrieked, breaking at the crescendo and filled with anger and fear. Vincent would never be sure if he had actually heard it or simply felt the reverberations resonate through his bones.

The searing Mako at last reached his heart and the youth's scream broke off. His breath hitched, his knees buckled, and his world went black before he even hit the floor.

**-**

Lucrecia, sweet little twelve-year-old Lucrecia, took the boy's head into her lap, crystal blue eyes wide. "Vincent," she hissed, shaking his slightly. "Vincent, wake up!"

The black-haired youth did not move—even the rise and fall of his chest with breath was lost. Lucrecia's own breath caught in her throat as she realized what that stillness entailed, and she called out—never taking her eyes of the boy's pale-and-growing-paler face—upon that discovery.

"Professor!" she shouted fearfully. "Professor, he's not breathing!"

The gray-haired man, who had been speaking to Farren and Mirac in a near-murderous hiss with one thick arm wrapped about either youth's neck, started and released at the girl's cry.

The two delinquents, free to breathe again, coughed roughly, one of them somehow finding the audacity to choke out a threat; a threat Lynden didn't hear even a word of due to the fact that he immediately dropped to his knees on the floor beside the fallen youth. He ushered Lucrecia to lay him flat, and when she had done so the retired SOLDIER check the boy's pulse. His own heartbeat quickened when he realized that the young half-Wutaian had none.

Adrenaline shooting through his system, long-dormant Mako enhancements resurfacing, Lynden went to work: he tore open Vincent's uniform jacket and shirt, then placed both hands—one on top of the other—on his bare chest. "One, two, three, four…" he pushed in careful rhythm, shooting Lucrecia a quick glance as he counted. The girl seemed to understand, for when the professor reached ten she bent over and pressed her mouth to Vincent's, pinching his nose shut with two fingers, and exhaled heavily. The boy's chest rose, but he made no response.

Lynden began again, Lucrecia tag-teaming the CPR with mouth-to-mouth, and they repeated the process three more times before Vincent at last reacted.

He coughed, clenching his eyes tightly, and rolled onto his side to ease the pressure on his lungs, curling up into a fetal position as he hacked violently. Lynden patted him on the back to soothe the spasms, and it wasn't until the boy's breath eased from choking coughs to wheezing gasps that he turned his Mako-bright gaze on the two renegade youths still standing behind him.

"Leave," he commanded quietly, his voice dripping with rage. "That is, if you value your pitiful little lives."

"What're you talking about?" Mirac chimed, raising one blond eyebrow. "We didn't do anything that could get us killed." He leaned over to Farren and hissed into his ear, "He's just trying to freak us out. Don't listen."

Lynden arched both eyebrows, glancing back at Vincent as Lucrecia helped him to rise to a sitting position. "Oh?" the professor queried. "Assaulting a Turk Cadet is punishable by death."

The delinquents started, their surprise mirrored by the entire class—who had by now gathered around Vincent and Lynden—and all eyes turned to the black-haired boy. Vincent lowered his eyes, one hand still clutched to his chest as though willing his speeding heart to slow.

"And that," Lynden continued, as though oblivious to the bombshell he had dropped in his classroom, "was not simply assault. That was attempted murder." Mirac, seeming to lose his confidence, took a shaky step back. "I'll give you a five second head start before I call Shinra Security and have them chase you down and shoot you." He narrowed his eyes menacingly. "Run. Now."

The boys, eyes wide, did as they were told. _Probably,_ Vincent thought dazedly as sense returned to him, _for the first time in their lives._

**-**

Vincent had returned entirely to his senses with nothing more than an aching wrist and a terrible headache. Nevertheless, he was sent to the infirmary for an examination and a quick blood draw—neither of which had turned up anything by the time he left—and then driven home by Professor Lynden himself. The retired SOLDIER insisted that Vincent stay home for the next few days to let the boy's inevitable reaction to the Mako run its course, to which Vincent replied with silence.

"Right," he said to himself, voice barely audible over the piano solo blaring from his computer, "like I'm actually going to skip school just because of a little bout with Mako Poisoning." He wasn't likely to develop a very bad case—it would likely be something akin to the cold, as most minor cases of Mako Poisoning were—and he wasn't contagious. There was no reason he could find to stay home.

He recalled Lynden's monster mouse, driven mad by its own injection, and his stomach lurched. He ground his teeth and shook his head to clear it, raking a hand through his inky hair, and surveyed his bandaged wrist for a moment more.

"I feel fine," he assured himself, pulling his sleeve back up to conceal the gauze wound about his wrist. Opening a text file, he at last began his homework. "There's nothing wrong with me—nothing at all."

But his hands shook as he began to type, and the glowing Mako eyes of his professor's test subject flickered to life every time he closed his eyes.

**-**

She looked around the room, blue eyes narrowing slightly as her brow furrowed. "Professor," she called, walking up to the man's desk and leaning on it. "Vincent isn't here today?"

Lynden shook his head. "I told him to stay home until the injection ran its course." He nodded to his left. "My assistant, David, will be filling in for Mirac as your lab partner while that boy awaits trial."

Lucrecia turned to face the young man—probably in his late teens, obviously a graduate—and gave a slight bow. She realized belatedly that it was a Wutaian custom, and berated herself for letting Haishin—a boy in her first-hour Materia Study class—rub his mannerisms off on her. She held out one hand, clear blue eyes meeting a set of deep sapphire, and shook the teen's hand. "I'm Lucrecia Sorrenson," she introduced herself with a smile.

"David Gast," the man replied, smile broad and true, displaying perfect white teeth. When he withdrew, he raked a hand through his scruffy ash-brown hair and sat back in his chair. "You're the child prodigy, right? The one from Killian's Human Development class?" She nodded, cheeks flushing pale scarlet. David whistled appreciatively. "You and your friend Vincent have caused quite a stir in this school—brilliant little kids from podunk little towns. Where is it you're from again?"

She averted her eyes, feeling oddly nervous under the young man's piercing gaze. It felt almost like she was some sort of research specimen that he was studying. "I-Icicle."

The ash-haired teen grinned, eyebrows arching. "Icicle? I've always wanted to go there. Is it true that's where the Ancients live?" Lucrecia shrugged, recalling the girl who had babysat her in her early youth. What was her name? Something strange… No matter the girl tried to recall all she found in her memory were piercing green eyes and a smile so bright it seemed to light up the world. David didn't seem at all disappointed by her reply, and simply continued to smile. "That's pretty cool, coming all the way from the frozen waste out here. What are you studying?"

Lucrecia decided it was time to change the subject. "Professor," she said, turning to face the retired SOLDIER once more. "Don't you think it's odd that Vincent isn't at school?" The man raised one eyebrow, clearly urging her to elaborate. "W-Well, he always came off as the kind of kid who would come to school even if his house had burnt down. I don't really think he would stay home just because you told him to."

Lynden's brow furrowed. "You know, Miss Sorrenson, I do believe you are correct. Now you have me worrying about him."

"Oh, I'm sure it's nothing," she said with a shake of her head, taking a step back and forcing a slight chuckle. "He's probably sore or has a headache or something and slept in late…"

David squinted. "We _are_ talking about the Valentine boy aren't we?" Both Lynden and his youngest student nodded. "I subbed one of his classes last year," he said, completely ignoring Lucrecia's obvious shock that someone so young could be a substitute teacher, "and I agree with Professor Lynden. When I taught him he was sick—it was during the winter, when everyone had that nasty virus. Remember that?—but he refused to go home. I actually had to talk his third-hour teacher into driving him back to Rourke's apartment, and even then he adamantly refused." He grinned wickedly. "So I cast a Sleep on him and brought him home myself."

"I'll be he hated you for that," Lynden chuckled.

David shrugged. "Poor kid was going to pass out sooner or later anyway, I just decided it would be better if I made sure it was when someone could take him home." His smile faded. "In any case, my point is that he wouldn't have stayed home unless something extremely unexpected happened." He glanced at Lucrecia, then back at the professor. "What concentration was his injection?"

The man's eyes darkened and he held a hand to his head as though it pained him. "The full dose," he replied. "One-hundred percent concentrated Mako."

**-**

When the young Turk Cadet awoke the next morning his head hurt. Horribly. He held a hand to the offending area of his skull and opened his eyes. That, he would muse later, was his first mistake. He should have just stayed in bed, eyes closed, and never gotten up again. That way he would never know what had gone wrong.

Vincent let out a sound not unlike a bark but more like a swear word that never existed—but should have, considering it was so obviously all-inclusive—as the bright light expertly singed his retinas. He threw his arm over his eyes, hiding in the crook of his elbow and suddenly not really caring that his arm hurt. If the pain in his eyes would fade he wouldn't care of he was suddenly missing a limb. Or three.

It took only an instant of laying there, eyes closed and breath heaving, to realize that something was wrong. Very wrong.

His left arm hurt, which made sense considering the events of yesterday; the manner of hurt, however, did not seem to fit the cause of that pain. It should have been an ache, maybe even a sharp stabbing pain, but what Vincent felt was more like a tight squeeze or pinch.

He carefully opened his eyes, drawing away the shield of his hurting arm slowly and allowing his pupils to tighten properly, and surveyed the appendage with narrowed eyes. The bandage, placed there after Lynden took a blood sample to see how his system was reacting to the Mako, was tight; tighter than it should have been, in any case. The flesh on either side of the band bulged slightly, constricted by the snowy gauze, and his hand was awash with the bizarre pins-and-needles sensation that told of hindered circulation.

Vincent sat up, brown eyes still narrowed, and spoke quietly. "What the…?" He moved to unwind the bandage as he rose to his feet, bed creaking behind him, but froze when he heard the sound of tearing stitches.

His nightshirt, worn out and old, one of four articles of clothing he had brought with himself from Kalm two years ago, didn't fit. It had been slightly loose the night before, a size and a half too big when he first came to live with Rourke, but now it was uncomfortably tight around his shoulders. And that wasn't all; he discovered that his feet, which had been buried in the deep blue fabric of his pajama pants when he went to bed—that particular article of clothing had belonged to Valyend when he was younger, and he had apparently been considerably taller than Vincent—were now easily visible.

"Shit," the boy swore, letting his hands drop.

Mako worked fast, didn't it?

**-**

**-**

**Another Author's Note:** Well? What d'you think? The flashback was a bit of a stretch, I know, but it was the only way I could work in the injection. It will be important—all the way through to _Bound_ and maybe even _Undone_—and gives me the chance to do some interesting things with Vin-kun.


	3. What It Means To Be A Turk

**Author's Note: **Gomen'ne, min'na-san! This chapter took for-bloody-ever to get written, and then I mulled over it for _weeks_ before it was up to my standards for posting. There's some little Vin/Luc interaction here, though, as well as yet another mention of little Lucrecia's friend, Haishin. If any of you don't know who this is by now, I'm very sorry. He'll be in the next chapter.

This chapter will also reintroduce you to the Turks, and go a little bit deeper into their characters before doing something very mean to all three of them. I hope you all like Rourke, he goes through some serious hell in this chapter.

**O – O – O**

**O – O – O**

**Chapter Three: What It Means To Be a Turk**

Lucrecia walked through the shopping arcade, checking the little notebook in her hand periodically to make sure she was heading the right direction. She had turned down a ride to Vincent's apartment from David Gast—who, while being perfectly amiable, made her a bit nervous—with the insistence that she knew where the youth lived and would have no trouble getting there on foot after school.

Of course this meant she had to look up his address—which required getting Haishin to hack into the academy files and print off the young Valentine's record—and figure out how to get there from the school without looking too lost. She hoped David didn't decide to drive past while she was still in plain sight, obviously uncertain of where to go from here. "Alexandria Street…" she murmured, stopping at a crossroads. The sign on either side bore the name she was looking for, which meant that it was _the_ Alexandria Street—the one that ran through the whole of Sector Three, cutting it in half down the middle. She was supposed to turn left, if her calculations were correct.

She glanced down that direction and found herself viewing a large pink-and-yellow building that even a child as young as herself recognized as a bad place for a girl to pass by unaccompanied. She wished that she had asked Haishin to come with her, for what felt like the hundredth time in as many seconds. He was smaller than her, yes, but he was a _boy_; as long as she was accompanied by someone of the opposite sex she wouldn't even get a backward glance from the keepers of that building.

A boy rushed past, inexplicably catching the girl's eye, and she watched with confusion as he disappeared into the crowd. "Vincent?" she murmured, unable to stop herself. She turned swiftly away, shaking her head and rapping herself soundly on the forehead with one knuckle. That boy had been too tall and his hair too long to be Vincent. But there was something unmistakably familiar about his gait, the way he walked so certainly and so quickly, always a heartbeat away from a sprint. She wondered if it was because he was training to become a Turk that he moved like that, but had no basis for comparison—she had never seen a Turk before, after all.

But that boy had looked so much like the Turk Cadet that the girl found herself drawn to face the direction he had gone, unable to move for several long seconds. He had been injected with condensed Mako, so there was no telling what could have happened to him. That might very well have been the young Valentine she had compared notes with so many times in the last year.

The girl realized that she would never find out if she was right or not unless she followed after him soon, and decided to hurry along in the youth's wake. She broke into a run, accidentally bumping into three people—she hated this place, it was always so crowded—and stepping on four feet before breaking free and reaching the shop she assumed the boy had rushed into.

She tried to look through the window, but found the glass to be tinted. She would have to go inside. Glancing up and reading the sign she let out a sigh of relief—this was the same place she had purchased her school uniform over the summer, a nice little tailor's shop run by a husband and wife, both of whom went only by their last names. The realization, however, brought a surge of confusion to her already-addled thoughts. What was he doing in a tailor's?

**O – O – O**

"Weren't you in here a couple months ago?" the woman inquired, pulling the length of measuring tape from one shoulder to the other and marking the distance down on the palm-sized notepad she held.

"Mm-hm," Vincent replied blankly.

She arched both pale eyebrows, eyes widening slightly. "You certainly grow quickly, don't you?" She measured from his neck to his waist, pausing to brush at a loose lock of ebon hair against his shoulder. "And your hair is so much longer, too, almost past your shoulders…"

"Mm-hm," he replied again, deadpan.

"What is that Turk feeding you?"

Now the boy let out a sigh. "Mrs. Markham, I can promise that this has nothing to do with how Rourke takes care of me." He let out a sigh and lowered his eyes, brow furrowing. He would have to cut his hair later—only the third time since he came to Midgar—before it drove his insane. It was, indeed, quiet a bit longer than it had been; uneven in cut for reasons the Cadet didn't bother to care about, at the longest point it brushed his shoulders. The length was unfamiliar and annoying, making him reach up and scratch the back of his neck every few minutes.

The sound of bells heralded the arrival of another patron, and both Mrs. Markham and Vincent turned to the doorway. "So it _is_ you," said the girl standing there, crystal blue eyes wide.

"Sorrenson," Vincent said quietly, surprised to see the young brunette. What was she doing here? Her uniform, which she still wore, fit just fine, meaning that she wasn't here for that. Vincent could only suppose that she had followed him in from the street, but that didn't explain how she took so long to come in. She was certainly an odd one.

She took a step forward, looking him up and down. "Are you okay?" she inquired.

"Aside from having to get a new uniform," he replied, "I'm fine. Not even sore."

Lucrecia's expression softened and she let out a relieved sigh. "Thank Gaea! The whole class was pretty worried about you—I told my friend Haishin what happened and he was worried, and he doesn't even know you. He wants to major in Mako Sciences, so he knows about this sort of thing. He said that you might have some dizzy spells, maybe even faint a couple times—"

The seamstress marked down the final measurement she needed to complete his uniform and ushered him off the dais, handing him a slip with the pick-up date on it. "I don't faint," Vincent replied shortly as Mrs. Markham, silent, left the room. The brunette flinched slightly at his voice, as though he had struck her, and the boy let out a sigh. He straightened out his oversized t-shirt and took a step toward the door, stopping when he came even with Lucrecia. "Why are you here, anyway?" he inquired at last.

"I told you, everyone was worried. I got your address and decided to check on you. The Professor said that the Turks are out of town right now, so you're all alone in your apartment; I was afraid something bad might have happened and no one was there to help."

Vincent looked her up and down, scrutinizing her carefully. "You were worried?"

She flushed slightly, lowering her eyes, and nodded shakily. "I-I just…Mirac and…I couldn't stop thinking about that stupid mouse, you know? The thought of you—of anyone—like that…it was just too much." She lifted her sapphire gaze to meet Vincent's earthy eyes. "Professor Lynden said your group had the full dose, twelve parts Mako. He used a lighter dose on his mouse, so…"

"You were afraid I was going to go insane and kill myself."

She chuckled nervously. "Something like that."

They stood in silence for a long moment. Vincent cleared his throat self-consciously. "You're the one who called for Lynden, right? The one who helped bring me back?" Lucrecia's face turned a deeper shade of pink as she nodded, but Vincent didn't see it with his eyes cast sideways. "Well, I guess I should thank you. Are you hungry?"

She started, letting out a short "Eh?" but couldn't force out another word.

Vincent faced her again, seeming perfectly at-ease. "I asked if you're hungry. There's a little restaurant around here that…" he paused, biting his bottom lip. He had always been careful not to mention his Shinra acquaintances in public, but Lynden had already let the entire class know he was a Cadet. He supposed there was no point in hiding it now. "…That the Turks and I go to sometimes, when they aren't on a mission somewhere. I was wondering if you wanted to get something to eat." He smiled nervously, though he knew that he appeared collected and easygoing. Turk training was a wonderful thing—it let one pretend that they were at-ease, the one thing a real Turk could _never_ be. "To pay you back for helping me."

"The Professor did all the work," she mumbled.

"But Lynden isn't here. Are you coming or not?"

She lifted her head swiftly, a smile lighting her features. "I'm coming."

**O – O – O**

"Dammit, why does Wutai always have to be so fucking wet?" Valyend hissed, throwing open the tent flap and storming in. "Makes me wish Shinra'd give us somethin' besides these stupid suits to wear."

Mirialle rolled her eyes. "Your pants are waterproof, idiot," she spat.

"My jacket isn't."

"I offered you a waterproof, thermal-lined coat, Val," the Leader retorted easily. "You said real men don't need jackets.

"You should've forced me to put it on," the redhead breathed, teeth chattering. "I'da hated you for about an hour, but I'd sure be lovin' you now."

Rourke straightened out his own jacket, wondering when Mirialle would decide Valyend had suffered enough and pull his lined jacket out of the pack sitting at her feet. She had brought it, well aware of what the weather was like in Wutai, and kept it concealed in her emergency pack in place of the blanket. If any of them came to a point that they needed an emergency blanket they were as good as dead anyway. _Hell,_ the copper-haired Turk thought with a sigh, shouldering his rifle, _if any of us get that bad, Mir will kill him anyway._ As Turk Leader, the mousy-haired young woman called Mirialle had to be prepared to do and face the worst. If her own condition degraded to the point of needing an emergency blanket she would order Rourke to kill her and take command.

He had been trained for just such a situation, but still wasn't sure if he'd be able to do it. Mirialle was more than his superior, she was his _friend_. Even though he knew they would never be anything more than that—Valyend had destroyed any of the gunner's hopes for that ever happening—he couldn't even think of hurting her.

The chattering of Valyend's teeth stopped, and Rourke turned to see Mirialle tear off his soaked jacket and replace it with the waterproof, thermal-lined one. The fiery-haired Turk gave her an appreciative smile, but said nothing. She smiled in return.

Rourke turned his interest back on the bushes just outside their tent. "I'm going to go stand guard while Val dries off," he said. Mirialle gave a monosyllabic sound of affirmation but said nothing more. Rourke sighed and rolled his pale eyes as he stepped out, letting the tent flap close behind him.

He would most likely be left out here all night; Valyend and Mirialle kept each other's nightmares away, so Rourke was stationed as night-guard under most circumstances. The older man envied Valyend that, but knew better than to stand up against him. Mirialle had made her choice, and Rourke would stand by it regardless. She was his Leader, he her second. Her word was his law; if that word happened to be a declaration of her relationship with Rourke's subordinate, so be it. Her word was his law.

But this particular word was one law he wouldn't mind breaking.

The gunner's thoughts were cut off by a flash of light in the bushes. He started, eyes narrowing, and attempted to see through the haze of rain obscuring his vision. Unless he was mistaken, that was the glimmer of Materia being activated. From such a distance he couldn't quite tell what type—though the vaguely orange tint hinted at the possibility of Fire—but it didn't matter. What mattered that someone was out there in the bushes, and they were apparently preparing to attack.

Rourke lifted his rifle, taking aim on the faint glow. "Put down the crystal," he ordered, "or I shoot it out of your hand."

The faint sound of laughter, high and wheezy even through the rain, reached the Turk's trained ears. "But even Shinra dogs cannot shoot what they cannot _see_…"

He ground his teeth and squeezed lightly on the trigger. "I can damn well shoot you," he growled, stepping slowly forward. He couldn't see the warrior, but he could see the Materia. As long as he trained off that he would be able to hit whoever it was out there in the dark. "You're right there, plain as day. Now drop the Materia and step out of the brush before I decide I don't want you ever moving again."

A long moment passed in silence. "Sir assassin," the high voice called again, apparently female, "I am afraid you are facing the wrong way."

Rourke's heart seemed to stop as a low sound cut the air, and he spun around just in time to see three orbs glowing with the brightest fiery light he had ever seen fly out of the bushes on either side of the tent. Before the Materia orbs collided with the tent, the barest sliver of a heartbeat before they hit, the sound of wind being torn, rain being detoured, air being sliced, reached the Turk's attention. Out of the darkness came three slivers of shimmering silver.

_Darts?_ He wondered, bewildered for the split-second it took for the needles to reach their marks.

As one the darts hit the orbs, and all at once the Materia exploded. The charge they had been forced to withhold was simply too great, and any sharp pressure on the surface would cause them to detonate like the most powerful of bombs. It was dangerous practice, one that not even Shinra dared to meddle in. In an instant, the tent imploded.

Rourke, shoved away from the force of the blast, spun around to face the burning mess that had been his temporary base with wide eyes. _No, no, no…! _He surged forward, only to be halted by the sudden explosion of something inside the pyre. Probably him ammo supply, ignited by the flames. Shards of twisted metal flew out all around what remained of the tent, biting into Rourke's skin and suit, staining him with blood and burning him with such impossible heat he could barely even feel it at first. Another explosion followed, and another and another, making the Turk realize that this could not simply be his ammo supply.

They had been sabotaged.

The metal frame of the tent blew outward, poles and fragments flying out in every direction as the explosion continued, and Rourke barely ducked as one came careening over his head. As he ducked, however, glancing up to make sure the beam missed him, he did not see the arm-length fragment that came barreling toward him. He cried out when he collided with his leg, the force easily snapping his femur in two, and crumpled on the wet earth, blood mixing with sodden dirt until all around him was the color of rust.

Rourke laid there, breathing heavily, unable to move and unable to think, staring up at the cloudy sky without really seeing it, for what seemed like an eternity before another thunderous beat alerted him that something else had been detonated. One of the main beams, still bearing on it a scrap of canvas the size of the Turk's torso, came slamming down beside him, effectively crushing his right arm.

The rust-haired Turk, filled with pain in every facet of his being, was nothing less than grateful when darkness clouded his vision and the roar of the fire dulled to a pleasant hum. Everything went dark, and Rourke Nicolai, Turk Second, knew no more.

**O – O – O**

Vincent allowed himself to hum quietly as he looked through the papers Lucrecia had given him—make-up work for the next week in their shared Science Class, as well as documents Lynden had gathered from his other classes to allow him to stay on track during his extended absence. He was under direct orders from everyone at the school, as well as Moribe Shinra, the President himself, not to return to his classes until the Mako had been entirely metabolized into his system.

It had been nearly four hours since the Turk Cadet walked the young scientist-in-training to the bus stop and saw her off, and Vincent had to admit that their little foray had gone well. There had been a spurt of uncomfortable conversation, but the half-Wutaian could overlook that rather easily. Lucrecia was a pleasant person to be around, the kind who demanded forgiveness without ever saying a word. It was impossible to find fault in her. Vincent, having had four friends in his entire life—or only one, if the Turks didn't count—was somewhat uneasy around the girl, but she had a relaxing effect that he enjoyed immensely.

It was strange, he found, to feel so relaxed. If he was going to be a Turk, he _couldn't_ relax. Ever. In all the time he had spent in Midgar he had never felt so relaxed—not even in his own home. There was always some chance of something going wrong, some terrorist finding the Turk's apartment and attempting something stupid, so Vincent, like Rourke, was constantly on his toes.

Perhaps hanging around with the little Sorrenson girl wasn't such a good idea.

'_You could actually kill people just because someone told you to?'_

Vincent flinched at the memory and shook his head slowly. So maybe she wasn't _entirely_ calming. She was training to be a doctor, someone who studied new healing methods and ways to protect people from illness. Vincent was training to kill. They were opposites in every respect—her respect for life was so great it was almost stifling, and Vincent's disregard was practically blasphemous.

But still, it was nice to sit and talk with someone as though he was a normal boy for once. He had never been normal, and this recent injection and revelation that he was enrolled in the Turk training program was enough to alienate him completely from the rest of the students in his class. To have one suddenly treat him as though he was just like practically every student at the academy was a pleasant change.

He chuckled, raking a hand through his hair and shaking his head slowly. "Oh, Valyend would have a fit. He'd try to give me some sort of adult talk and tell Rourke to start planning my wedding." He smiled, sitting back in his chair and setting the papers down in the desk. The youth heaved a sigh, eyes darkening. How long would it be before the Turks came home? He missed Rourke's company terribly, wanting nothing more than to have someone to talk to about the bizarreness caused by his impromptu injection.

Everything was in perfect focus, and it made Vincent feel as though he should have needed glasses before. Sounds were loud, even the subtle hiss of expelled breath seeming almost unbearably loud. It hadn't been bad at first, but it grew more pronounced with each passing hour. By the time he said his farewells to Lucrecia he wanted to hold both hands to his head and scream for the universe to be quiet. Was this what it was like in SOLDIER? If so, the youth was very glad that he had chosen to join the Turks.

Sighing, he brushed his hair over his shoulder, annoyed with its sudden increase in length. Where this morning it had barely been to the base of neck, now that it was dark out it was down to the top of his shoulderblades. "Gaea!" he growled, pulling it back and making a vain attempt to tie it into a knot. He held it back, jerking open one of the drawers in his desk and pulling out a pair of scissors. He snapped them open and closed several times before reaching back and cutting off the failed knot, letting the silky strands fall to the floor when he released.

He cocked his head to one side, then the other, testing the length, and decided it would do for now. It was still chin-length in the front, but he could deal with that, at least for the moment. He would trim it properly once he was done with his homework.

"Homework, right." The Cadet lifted the first page off the stack and read it over carefully before clicking his mechanical pencil several times and placing it to the page. He finished the assignment and moved on to the next, then the next, then the next…

Vincent reached out for the next page in the stack, and felt an unpleasant lurch in his stomach when his fingers brushed only the bare metal of the desk. He lifted his gaze and blinked confusedly at the blank space where his assignments had been. He turned to his right to view the stack of complete assignments, and checked them over for accuracy. That was it? He was done?

The Cadet turned his eyes on the clock to his left and blinked once more in confusion. It had, apparently, been barely an hour and a half since he sat down. He had thought that it would take him at least a day to complete the assignments he had been given, but he knew he often didn't give himself enough credit. He was fast, but to complete—he counted hurriedly—twenty-two sheets in an hour and a half was seriously pushing even the slight limits he thought he had.

He rose to his feet and went to his bed, pulling over his backpack and rifling through it. Lucrecia had bought him a book on the way to bus stop in the hopes that it would give him something to do while he was out of school and assure him of his own returning health. He had put it in the bag to be certain he would be able to find it when he wanted it—for a boy who had so little, he was surprisingly adept at losing things.

"Ah!" he breathed, pulling out the small text hurriedly. The book was black and bore on the front, in neat turquoise lettering, _Mako_. He opened it to the index and referenced 'Mako effects' looking for subheadings under 'brain,' 'intelligence,' and finally 'mental.' The final word brought up 'mental acuity,' and Vincent hurriedly turned to the page noted, keeping his finger in the back in case he needed to turn back.

_Mako Effects on Mental Acuity_, the book read. _Mako has been known to accelerate and enhance, variably, every process of the human body. Not the least of these is mental processes, the ability to think and solve problems using abstract thought. Numerous cases of mental Mako enhancements have been documented, the majority of which included a sudden rise in mental clarity and a quickening of mental processes._

Vincent sighed and let the books drop, grinding his teeth and holding his head. "Damn it all!" he shouted, clenching his eyes shut and digging his fingers into his thick hair. "Is there anything that shit didn't completely _screw up_!"

**O – O – O**

Rourke's first sensation as he returned to consciousness was that of pain, all over his body. The second was the realization that the rain had stopped. He smelled smoke in the air and tasted ash in his mouth, and it was these that jolted him to complete wakefulness. His eyes snapped open, stinging in the pale light of the early morning, and he attempted to prop himself up. He screamed when his right arm, pinned under a mass of metal and canvas, sent burning pain through his entire right side.

Gritting his teeth and turning teary eyes on the weight, Rourke used his left arm to shove the pole away, causing it to dig into the mud so deeply he knew he would never be able to pull it out. His right arm was free now, though, and his left appeared in working order, so he was able to haphazardly push himself up. His left leg protested horribly as he rose, but the scraping of bone on bone wasn't enough to cause the Turk to fall back to the bloody mire.

He was, after all, a Turk. He had trained for this. He was a member of the most elite, better even than SOLDIER and without a flicker of enhancement. He was a Turk; this was easy.

He let out a long breath, cradling his wounded arm, and scanned the area. There was the tent, sopping and smoking all at once, twisted metal bars shining dimly in the early-morning light. It was still fairly dark, the sky a deep shade of grayed cobalt, so seeing was a little more difficult than Rourke would have preferred, but any light was better than the complete darkness of last night. The canvas was mostly destroyed, though some sheets still lay in charred testament to their former use, and even as Rourke moved forward he could see that quite a bit of the metal had melted in the blaze.

_Magic-induced,_ he reminded himself. _It burned a lot hotter than fire should._

A faint groan reached his hearing, and the gunner started. He lurched forward, almost falling over again, toward the rubble and tore at the metal and fabric that had been his temporary base. If they were still alive, even one of them…! He realized that he had been too stunned a moment ago to even think about his companion's wellbeing, and internally kicked himself. _The team comes first,_ he thought. _Without them, I'm alone._

Rourke tore through the debris, scrambling to find some trace of his companions—his _friends_. As he pulled back a sopping sheet of canvas, the Turk's breath hitched, brown eyes widening. "Oh, Gaea…"

The wet canvas must have protected her upper body from the flames, because Rourke could find little to no charring on her face and arms, though her jacket was torn and her shirt stained scarlet in several places. From the waist down, however… The rust-haired Turk shuddered as he tugged away the heap of contorted metal, revealing a mass of burned blood and bone that made him sick to his stomach. He knelt down beside her—though halfway it turned into a fall because of his broken leg—and placed a hand on either of the mousy-haired woman's shoulders. He bit back a cry as pain lanced through his broken right arm, biting his tongue to redirect his attention.

Balance pain with pain. It was rather stupid. But then, he was a Turk. He had trained for this. He was a Turk; this was easy.

"Mirialle," he hissed. "Mir, come on…!" Tears stung his eyes and just as he had slumped in defeat the battered, bruised, and all-too-pale woman took a raspy breath. It was constricted and dry, bearing the distinct wheeze of dried blood in her airway, but Rourke didn't care. If she was breathing, she was _alive_. The canvas, soaked and oiled, must have been smothering her and blocking off her mouth, making her unable to breathe. In removing it, Rourke had jump-started her weak lungs and allowed her at least a moment more of life.

"Mir!" he cried.

She opened her eyes weakly, dull and lacking entirely their former spark of daring, and the Turk winced when he saw them. "R-Rourke?" she wheezed, squinting. She reached out with one shaking, bloody hand and he took it into his unbroken left. Her skin was so cold Rourke started when he touched her, but didn't dare to let go. She might have been suffering from hypothermia—if that was the case then he could really use that discarded emergency blanket right now. "F-Funny," she breathed weakly, brow furrowing, "I c-can't…see you…"

"The fire must have damaged your eyes," Rourke said with a weak smile. "That's no big deal—the guys back in Midgar can fix that right up!" He chuckled, holding her hand to his cheek to let her feel his smile. "You're going to be just fine, Mir."

She was silent for a moment. "V-Valyend…"

Rourke flinched, and didn't manage to move her hand away from his face quickly enough for her not to notice. Her eyes narrowed slightly in curiosity as Rourke spoke. "I-I didn't find him."

She shook her head. "No, Val…he cast a shield a-around me when th-the…tent…" She coughed, and it evolved into a wet gurgle that made Rourke's stomach lurch. "It caved," she continued, blood trailing out the corner of her mouth, "and h-he was…" She shook her head. "You…You won't find h-him…"

Rourke slumped slightly. Valyend—his best friend—dead. Crushed and burned and weakened by a spell that couldn't possibly have saved anyone. He shook his head determinedly to rid it of such thoughts. Mirialle was alive, and she was going to stay that way. The woman's left hand, fingers still curled about the grip of her chain-and-sickle, began to shake as shivers wracked through her. Rourke leaned forward to calm her, but her eyes widened and she froze suddenly in place. "Rourke?" He arched both eyebrows and, even though she couldn't see him, Mirialle continued. "I-I can't feel…my legs."

"A-A chunk of the tent pinned you," he said, trying with all his might to sound calm. "They're…They're pretty badly damaged." He smiled, but in spite of his attempt to keep it real it felt terribly forced. "Nothing irreplaceable, though. We'll get you a couple prosthetics and you'll be turning cartwheels in no time."

Her brow furrowed in thought as shivers overtook her again, bloodstained teeth chattering. "Y-You?" she inquired at last, voice a weak choke. "H-H-Hurt?"

Rourke bit his bottom lip. Judging from the dizziness and blurred vision he had at the very least a mild concussion; his right arm was broken in at least three places; his left leg was snapped; his right eye fell more and more out of focus every time he blinked, meaning he might very well need a replacement. "I must have hit my head," he replied quietly. "I think I have a concussion."

"Rourke." Even without her sight she could read him like an open book. Rourke had been trained in espionage, so lying should have come as second nature, but he could _never_ lie to her. She turned her unseeing eyes on him, expression stern, and her subordinate sighed in defeat.

"I _definitely_ have a concussion," he admitted, "one of my eyes isn't working right, my right arm is broken, and so is my left leg."

She took a wheezing breath. "…Bad?"

He nodded slowly, eyes downcast. "Y-Yeah, Mir, it's pretty bad."

The woman sighed and pulled her hand away, reaching into her jacket to clumsily pull out her Shinra-issue sidearm. A black pistol, definitely of Valentine make, was thrust at Rourke with a shaking hand a tenuous grip. A part of him registered numbly that it was an Ayako, named after Gabrael's dead wife, Vincent's mother, but the rust-haired man didn't care. He stared at the gun, then lifted wide eyes to Mirialle's face, finding her jaw set and expression determined.

"Do it," she commanded.

His mouth worked wordlessly. "B-But—"

"This is what it means to be a Turk!" she screamed, eyes clenched tightly shut. "Do it, Rourke!"

"I can't!" he hollered shakily.

She gave a weak chuckle, and Rourke saw tears caught in her eyelashes. "Idiot," she spat. "If I stay here…the W-Wutaians will find me…and pick my mind apart. Th-Th-They'll keep me alive just long enough…to pump me for all the information…I've got, then they'll let me…let me l-l-linger for days…even _weeks_." She swallowed heavily. "U-Unless…you're going to _carry_ me…to Midgar? On a b-broken l-leg…?"

"I could try," he replied, fully aware that she had already won this argument. She _always_ won. New tears stung his eyes as he took the gun, Mirialle's hand lingering on his own for a heartbeat more than necessary, just enough to make his chest seize, before sliding listlessly to the mess that had once been her lap.

They were Turks. They had trained for this. They were the most elite, better even than SOLDIER and without a flicker of enhancement. They were Turks…

This should have been easy.

Rourke's hand shook as he took aim, vision blurry by both injury and tears, and the Leader smiled. "Y-You can…do this…Rourke…" she assured him.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he hissed frantically, clenching his eyes shut and squeezing the trigger. Tears streaked down his ash-stained cheeks, trailing a line of clean down his dirty skin. "I'm sorry!" A shot rang out, after which there was a long moment of silence.

Rourke screamed.

**O – O – O**

**O – O – O**

**Another Author's Note:** Uh…actually, I have nothing to say here. Just keeping up tradition. Sorry. Oh, wait! I do have something to say! Massive thanks to anyone who's been reading this so far, to anyone who has it favorited and anyone who's reviewed. I don't have the list saved this time so I can't give a proper thanks, but I would like to say that you all are some of the best people there are out there. Period. Thank you all so much!

**O – O – O**

**Next Time on _Raveled_…**

_Had Valyend been the one to greet him at the door of Shinra Headquarters, Rourke would have been told that he looked like shit. As it was, the woman at the desk gave a high-pitched '_meep'_ and recoiled at the sight of him. The rust-haired Turk didn't blame her. _

_It had been a scant three days since the attack at Wutai, since Valyend died and Rourke learned what it truly meant to be a Turk, and the gunner had scarcely stopped moving since then. He had limped back to their helicopter, alone; flown it to the shore and boarded their boat, alone; piloted the boat back to the mainland, alone; boarded the buggy and driven it across the wasteland, _alone_. When the buggy ran out of fuel he had walked the remaining eight miles, across the black fields, to Midgar, entered the slums, taken the train all the way up to the Plate and walked to Headquarters from the station._

_All with a concussion, half blind—his wounded eye had finally simply given out on him, turning half his vision into a great dark void in his universe—a shattered arm and a broken leg. _

_To put it bluntly, had Valyend been there to describe the only living Turk's current state, Rourke would only have nodded in agreement._

_He lurched forward, leaving a bloodstained trail—he had lost his right shoe on the walk to the city sometime, and so his foot was a bloody mess—on the silvery floor. Looking up at the elevator he almost cried out at the hastily-scrawled sign it bore: _Out Of Order

_The Turk sighed and rolled his brown eyes, limping toward the stairway. What was another mile of stairs in comparison to the several-hundred-mile trek he had already endured? He let out a sigh, pulled open the door and stumbled onto the first set of stairs. "One foot…after the other, Rourke," he told himself. "One foot after the other…"_

**O – O – O**

Please look forward to it!


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